


Ni haa'taylir val sur'haai bal kar'taylir

by Singsofbly



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bounty Hunters, Childhood Trauma, Implied Sexual Content, Lemme just say, M/M, Or Is It?, Past Character Death, Past Relationship(s), Pining, Post-Break Up, Psychological Trauma, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love, i saw maybe five minutes of total interaction and said, i started this when season 2 was in production, i'm sorry in advance, this is chaos spawning from the depths of my soul., time to make this tragic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:08:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25555594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Singsofbly/pseuds/Singsofbly
Summary: To walk the way of the Mandalore is to be both hunter and prey. It didn't start this way, but that is how it is now. Many things didn't start the way they are now. You know this intimately. Adaptability is essential to survival, and survival is strength.Now, ask yourself, Paz Viszla. Will you simply survive, or will you learn to forgive, and thrive?
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Paz Vizla
Comments: 22
Kudos: 82





	1. The Customer's Not Always Right

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy! Couple things real quick.  
> 1\. Thanks for popping by.  
> 2\. Mando'a translations will be at the end.  
> 3\. Feel free to make any corrections and point out mistakes to me in the comments!

There are a lot of things that mandalorians don’t mind. They are a warrior race, with no qualms with inflicting pain or death. Follow the way, and you’re in the clear. However, when he comes waltzing through the covert with a weighty camtono in hand in the midst of talk that he had led a child, no, an ik'aad through the town, because yes, gossip penetrates into the covert, there is something to be questioned. When he is noticeably without said child, that is enough to warrant Paz Vizsla following his movements behind his helmet.

“What happened to the kid?” Someone mumbles once he is far enough ahead. 

“Think he sold ‘em out? That was his payment I bet.”

“No, he wouldn’t!”

“Wouldn’t he?” If you asked, Paz would say it’s spiteful curiosity that makes him get up to follow Din, and definitely not the sudden feeling of every pair of eyes within earshot drifting in his direction.

It becomes clear to him what Din had deemed valuable enough to trade in a child for. Paz turns the corner and paces up behind a pair of onlookers to see him sitting across from the Armorer, the camtono now splayed open and stacked high with ingots of beskar. 

“I must warn you, it will draw many eyes.” He feels it more than sees when the Armorer looks up at him. He doesn’t acknowledge the underlying comment of her words and lets himself into the bounty hunter’s space, picking up one of the ingots. The stamp on the corner of the slab makes the scars on his arms burn and his stomach drop. Not again.

“These were cast in an imperial smelter.” He doesn’t even try to keep the contempt out of his voice. “These are the spoils of the Great Purge.” The growl he does manage to corral when he notices the presence of the others. 

“The reason we live like sand-rats.” The beskar drops onto the table loudly. Din winces and Paz can’t even find enjoyment in that. The Armorer picks up the ingot.

“Our secrecy is our survival. Our survival is our strength.”

“Our strength was once in our numbers. Now we live in the shadows and only come above ground one at a time.” The implied intimacy in the way he can see Din tighten his shoulders and try to make his turn away appear casual bothers him. It’s outweighed by the satisfaction he gets from knowing he’s caused the man pain. Even if it never seems to match his own, speaking of,

“Our world was shattered by the Empire, with whom this coward shares tables.” The move to remove his helmet is an impulsive one, but the thrill that moves through Paz’s gut when he feels the strength in the smaller body of Din twist and grip his forearms is instinctive and entirely unwelcome.

He pulls the bounty hunter up by the two-handed grip on his helmet, the movement caused less by his own pull and more by Din’s ironclad determination to keep the damn thing on. He releases Paz’s vambrace in favor of slamming his fist down on each of his forearms to break his grip. He reaches for the vibroblade tucked into his boot and swipes at him, earning a startled yell out of the larger man. He catches his next swing and they grapple for a moment before Paz shoves Din away and draws his own blade, holding it to his throat. His mind does not have the permission it seems to believe it has to bring up unwanted images of similar positions in friendlier situations, or the realization that Din has been injured.

“The Empire is no longer, and the beskar has returned.” The Armorer has stood now.

“When one chooses to walk the Way of the Mandalore, you are both hunter and prey. How can one be a coward if one chooses this way of life?

Have you ever removed your helmet?” Her attention is on Din.

“No.” Din’s response is underlined by a deep breath.

“Has it ever been removed by others?”

“Never.”

“This is the Way.” She has turned to Paz now, a silent challenge in her stance. The group that has gathered echoes her words.

“This is the Way.” Even the bitter aftertaste of his anger and disgust cannot take the reverence the phrase warrants from Paz’s tongue.

“What caused this damage?” She gestures an appraising hand at the crushed cuirass on his chest and dents along the length of his body as she returns to her seat.

“A mudhorn.” Din moves forward and joins her again.

“Then you have earned the Mudhorn as your signet.” Her eyes are on him as she counts the beskar with her hands. She looks down at them again. “I shall craft it.”

“I can’t accept. It wasn’t a noble kill.” He is looking down now. Paz doesn’t react to the glance the Armorer sends his way. 

“I was helped by an enemy.” Ah, was it the child, perhaps? The internal tone is mocking, bouncing around Paz’s head as he leans against the wall, waiting for the next moment he could drag the man’s failings back into the spotlight.

“Why would an enemy aid you in battle?” Somehow, the Armorer never seems to not know the answer to the questions she poses.

“It did not know it was my enemy.” There is hesitation in his voice, and that is all the information Paz needs. 

When he had thought of the possibility it was the child he had brought into town that had helped him, it had been a joke. The only way an “enemy” couldn’t have known whether it was his enemy or not is if it actually had been the child.

The anger and surprise shouldn’t be as potent as they are. Paz knows of Din’s nature. Borderline demagolka, working with imps even when he was there during the purge, when he knew what they’d done, when he knew they had taken her-

Paz takes a deep breath, his belly simmering. Of course he knows, and he doesn’t care. Aiding imperials seems to be ingrained into Din’s every action.

“Since you forgo a signet,” the Armorer’s voice tunes Paz back into the room, “I shall use the excess to forge whistling birds.”

“Whistling birds will do well. Reserve some for the foundlings.” Paz restrains himself from a snort. Your show may fool everyone else here, Djarin, but not me.

“As it should always be. The foundlings are the future. This is the Way.” She calls, and the crowd answers. Din responds in kind, his eyes trained on her.

Paz pushes off the wall. There is nowhere this conversation is going that could warrant his attention anymore. He hears the Armorer stand as he leaves, the stacks of beskar making a quiet clink sound in her hands, and the flames of the forge roar just a little louder in his ears.

\---

Mandalorians are not likely to share their personal thoughts and feelings with you. What they will not tell you, in alignment with this, is that having beskar forged is a deeply personal and sometimes spiritual process. The steady rhythm of the Armorer’s hammer, the tempestuous howl of the flames, and the confidentiality of someone knowing exactly what is required to sufficiently protect you combines into a potent cocktail of security and repetitive tedium that is likely to send even the most hyper-focused of individuals into a meditative trance. The things a mandalorian sees in the flames of the forge from within the confines of their helmet are reminiscent of visions, and are gebbar kar’ta.

“Whistling birds are a powerful defense against multiple enemies. Use them sparingly, for they are rare.” The Armorer brushes the surface of his mind with her voice. He is not present enough to acknowledge her, but she knows he has heard her.

What Din sees behind his helmet would be difficult to watch for anyone. He sees fire, and death, and fear from behind much younger eyes, eyes that aren’t always framed by a tinted visor. He sees his every loss, along with that his every triumph. He sees his first mission, and the loss of his birth parents. He sees the day of his gai bal manda, and the day his buir was killed. He sees the happiest day of his life, and he sees her eyes…

The Armorer pulls his hands away from his body and tugs off the remains of his former cuirass. He snaps back to reality and holds his arms away, allowing her to seal the new beskar shell to his chest. She takes his arms and slides the repaired vambraces onto his forearms. Pauldrons are next, and then cuisses. 

She stands up fully, the mangled mess of what was once his cuirass in her hands. She regards it carefully and runs a finger along the fresh scratch Paz had put on it. 

“He does not believe you did all you could.” Suddenly all he can see are those eyes, small and almond-shaped. He inhales sharply and leaves. A bounty might get his mind off of the way history seems to rhyme for the purpose of mocking him.

When he enters the cantina looking for Greef Karga, it goes nearly silent. Every set of eyes or photoreceptors in the building seem intent on following his every move. He moves directly for Karga.

“Ah! Mando!” He chuckles. “They all hate you Mando. Because you’re a legend!”

“How many of them had tracking fobs?” Karga moves uncomfortably at this, a snort and a glance around giving away his discontent.

“All of them. All of them! But not one of them closed the deal. Only you, Mando. Only you.” Din takes a moment to pan his gaze around the room briefly, if not solely for the purpose of diluting the thickness of the guildman’s flattery.

“And with it, the richest reward this parsec has ever seen. Please sit, my friend.” He gestures to the empty seat in his booth. Din unclasps his disruptor rifle and sits down abruptly, a silent hope that this will wrap up soon.

“They’re all waying the beskar in their minds,” guess not, “but not me. No. I, for one, I celebrate your success. Because it is my success as well.” He takes a deep breath as the man rambles on.

“Hell, even I am rich.” The glower he levels at the beskar he sees in Karga’s meaty hand is private. 

“Now, how can I show my gratitude to my most valuable partner?” Why the guildsman is so set on getting the entire bar to hate him is anyone’s guess, but if that is his goal, he’s succeeding. Din doesn’t want to think about them, or Karga, or those eyes.

“I want my next job.”

“Next job? Take some time off. Enjoy yourself.” He glances around and thumbs over his shoulder. “I’ll take you to the twi’lek healing baths.” 

“I want my next job.”

“Sure, fine, you hunters like to keep busy, right? Well, these are all far away.”

“The further, the better.” Din’s fingers wrap around one of the pucks he slides out onto the table and he pulls it back to his chest.

“Well, take your pick. You’ve earned it.” He flips a switch on the puck and sets it down on the table. It flickers to life, blue and red glowing from the hovering letters and images of the poster.

“Ah, that’s the best one of the lot. A nobleman’s son skipped bail.” Karga scoffs. “Looks like you’re headed to the Ocean Dunes of Karnak.”

Din swipes the puck back and stands, grabbing his disruptor rifle as he turns to leave. He takes a step away and pauses.

“Any idea what they’re gonna do with it?”

“With what?”

“The kid.” He turns around to face Karga again.

“I didn’t ask. It’s against the Guild Code.” The man makes an attempt at acting reasonable.

“They work for the Empire. What are they doing here?” There are explosions behind his eyes again, and the edge of a small head.

“The Empire is gone, Mando. All that are left are mercenaries and warlords. But, if it bothers you, just go back to the Core and report them to the New Republic.” Karga uses the same tone a parent would, the pitch of his words as if he were speaking with a child.

“That’s a joke.”

“Mando, enjoy your rewards.” He pauses and considers his next works. “Buy a camtono of spice. By the time you come out of hyperdrive you will have forgotten all about it.” 

Din considers refuting that for a second, decides against it, and picks up his rifle. He certainly won’t get wrecked on spice, but maybe getting a job on the move will help his mind learn how to be quiet.

He is almost completely through the start-up sequence when he sees the ball of the lever grip is gone, placed on the side console, and suddenly the two eyes have become four and he can’t let it happen again. 

\---

The droid eye extending from the wall comes off with a satisfying pop and a shower of sparks. Din steps out of the door frame and turns the corner before the stormtroopers file out of the compound. The explosive he plants on the wall beeps its way to an entry point and the pair of troopers investigating fall dead with blaster bolts in their backs.

A door at the end of the hall slides open and a third muddy trooper stomps in, swinging a rifle and lamp around the area. Dispatching him took nothing but a bit of grappling, the satisfying crunch of a strike to his armor, and a blaster bolt through his heart.

Din pauses in the next hall, glances around and continues on. The next one, he crouches, shoots his grappling line around the trooper’s torso, and hugs him in, his vibroblade finding his heart from his back. He falls with a wet groan and his body is easy to step over.

The next trooper is lucky and gets a shot in on Din’s shoulder. It bounces off the beskar harmlessly, and his stumble is not significant enough to stop him from shooting the long-since-white armored trooper down.

“No, no, no no, please! Please. No. No, no!” The scientist, Dr. Pershing, is pleading and shielding the child with his body. Din ignores him for the moment in favor of shooting the interrogation droid, why do they have an interrogation droid for a child?

“No, please. Please don’t hurt him. It’s just a child.” Remarkable bravery out of the imperial with a blaster trained on him. Even as Din advances, he doesn’t move, though his “please, no. No! Please. No. No. No, no,” raises in pitch, continuing after he throws him out of the way.  
Din points his blaster at him and he braces, even as he no longer protects anything but himself. He is no threat, so Din diverts his attention to the child. It is unconscious, and for all Din doesn’t understand the readings the monitors are displaying, they spike nervousness in his gut and the thoughts of dead possibilities.

“What did you do to it? What did you do to it?!” Only a few people would be able to tell there is fear in Din’s voice.

“I protected him! I protected him. If it wasn’t for me, he would already be dead! Please.” If Din didn’t hold a grudging respect for his efforts to protect the child, he would call what Pershing is doing sniveling. While he curls up on himself, pleading for his life, Din wraps the child in a blanket and leaves the room.

With the child in his arms, he has to change tactics. No longer can he run around without steady caution, his arm occupied with priceless cargo. He hides from the first pair of troopers and slips past them through a doorway. Unfortunately, the next two troopers are not so unobservant, and they pepper the area around him with blaster bolts. He slips behind some crates while they reload and let them split up and come to him, each hardly a fight for him even one handed.

“Hey!” The next stormtrooper in the door meets the end of his disruptor rifle and blue arcs of electricity flood across the off-colored armor until he falls. Din advances into the next corridor.

A trooper comes in behind him and falls to a shot in the chest. A shot comes from his front so he turns and opens fire with his flamethrower, holding the flame there until the stormtrooper stops screaming. Din steps over him and continues on.

The next room is mostly empty, and wide open. It’s the room Din recognizes at where the Client had held their meetings. He enters slowly, scanning the room. A door slides open on his left.

“Freeze!” Two come in at his front, two at his back.

“Don’t move!”

“Drop the blaster!” Stormtroopers somehow manage to all sound the same, even if three of them are speaking.

“Wait. What I’d holding is very valuable. Here.” Din lowers himself slowly, placing his blaster on the floor. The child whimpers gently against his chest. He sets him down next to the blaster.

“Now turn and face me.” The stormtrooper at his front orders. He begins to rise slowly, and gives his new vambrace a tug. The whistling birds pop forward with a slide and a click.

“Stand up.” The trooper is nearly cut off by the telltale singing of the projectiles flying from his wrist. Once they have found their mark and the whistling has subsided, Din glances around and picks the child up again.

He makes it out of the compound with no more incidents. Next step, make it to the Razor Crest and get offworld.

The walk to the shipyard is getting less and less casual the longer it goes on. He started to pick up tails half way through, and they’re multiplying. Soon, he’s surrounded by half-rate bounty hunters, drawn blasters and blinking tracking fobs. He slows to a stop.

“Welcome back, Mando! Now put the package down.” Karga. Kriffing Karga. He’s stepped directly between Din and the shipyard and is thumbing his blaster. Din touches his own and considers his options. He can try talking it out. Probably not gonna work, but worth a shot.

“Step aside. I’m going to my ship.” Karga snorts.

“You put the bounty down and perhaps I’ll let you pass.”

“The kid’s coming with me.”

“If you truly care about the kid, then you’ll put it on the speeder and we’ll discuss terms.” Oh like hell that was gonna happen.

“How do I know I can trust you?”

“Because I’m your only hope.” Well, that way’s shut, they left him with no choice. He walks up to the speeder and pauses. The child’s eyes are shut. Kriff.

His draw is the kind of speed that is built up to be faster and faster, beginning with early childhood. Thus, the hunter he shoots is already falling and he is flipping over the speeder by the time any of them take a shot.

The resulting shootout allows him only a few shots over the cover of the edge of the speeder, and he uses his blaster to menace forward movement out of the operator droid with a grunted “drive!” The droid squeals and begins moving the speeder closer to the shipyards. Din uses the moment to take out more hunters from behind his cover.

Someone manages to shoot the operator droid, and it screams its way into a collision with a stack of crates, stopping the speeder sharply. Din rolls up against the back of the vehicle and unstraps his disruptor rifle.

The sniper on the nearby roof goes first, floating down to street level in a cloud of ashes. Next is a hunter across the street. Din is reloading faster than he’s done since his buir was hanging over his shoulder and telling him to speed it up. He gets one more hunter, a rodian, before the pack gets smart and takes cover.

“That’s one impressive weapon!” Karga’s voice is getting more and more aggravating every time Din hears it.

“Here’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna walk to my ship, with the kid, and you’re gonna let it happen.” He is sick and tired of these hunters’ osik.

“No. How about this? We take the kid, and if you try to stop us, we kill you and we strip your body for parts.” Karga has actually breached the border into pissed off, and it’s somehow overshadowed any semblance of fear he has of Din’s hypercompetence. That is definitely a cause for concern.

Suddenly there’s a weapon careening down at Din, and he rolls out of the way, shoving the prod of his disruptor into the hunter’s torso. He falls easily, but unfortunately, now Din is in the open again, and every hunter in the area takes a shot at him. He takes cover again and reaches over the edge of his stronghold, unleashing his flamethrower. It only lasts for a few seconds, and sputters out completely soon thereafter. The blaster fire resumes and all he can think to do is cover the child.

Oh, but when that little tiny thing with no concept of object permanence, let alone self-defense opens it’s big eyes and looks up at him and fills his heart with the need to protect, suddenly he understands exactly what Paz has been through and wants to live purely to grovel at his feet until that man understands how sorry he is.

Then, all of a sudden, there is white fire in the sky and hunters are falling to blasters that are not his own. The covert, his tribe has come. Mandalorians on sen'tra'e are landing among Din’s hunters and it’s all Din can do to not cry tears of relief. The child will be safe.

There’s the sound of a repeating cannon and Din looks up and despite himself, despite the years of pain and regret, his heart, already so full, is overflowing because Paz is here. The man he would trust more than anyone in the universe, even though it wasn’t mutual, was here and was saving him and Din might actually be crying now.

“Get out of here! We’ll hold them off!”

“You’re going to have to relocate the covert.” Din prays that Paz had forgotten how his voice sounds through his helmet when he’s crying.

“This is the way.” Paz looks back at him and for some reason there is a tone in his voice Din would’ve never thought he’d hear again. Understanding.

“This is the Way.” Din manages, receiving a nod in response. Paz opens fire on the hunters as he scoops up the child and makes a dash for the shipyards. A quick tap on his wrist and the Razor Crest opens for him. He makes a beeline for the cockpit and-

“Hold it, Mando.” Kriffing Karga managed to slip away and followed him.

“I didn’t want it to come to this, but then you broke the Code.” Din listens for most of his words, until his gaze drifts over to the carbonite freezer. If he could just…

His grappling hook shoots out and the belly of the Razor Crest is filled with gas. Karga lets off several shots, but his visibility is a fraction of Din’s right now, and dodging is easy. He just needs the one shot and Karga is flying off his ship with a blaster bolt to the heart.The startup sequence flicks by in seconds and soon the Crest is off the ground, passing over the surface of Navarro without a glance.

Just as he’s breaking atmo on the coattails of an adrenaline high, his slowing heart picks up speed again as he looks out the viewport on his right to see Paz, jetpack roaring, as imposing as the day they met. He raises a hand in a salute and peels off and it’s all Din can do to look forward and continue his current course and not turn back to follow him.

“I gotta get one of those.” He mutters out loud, trying to convince himself? The child? Anyone who happened to be paying attention that his focus was on the jetpack and not the man attached to it.

A tiny, green hand reaches up at his elbow and he looks down, affection blooming in his soul, and unscrews the ball from that lever. The child giggles when he drops it into his hand and that affection just multiplies with every second, doesn’t it? He’s gotta get to hyperspace quickly so he can figure out more ways to get that giggle out of the little one again.


	2. You're never the only one in pain.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paz is confronted with some very confusing and stressful scenarios in a short amount of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a translations at the end :)

Paz is barely in his quarters when he rips his cuirass off. He drops it heavily onto his bed and tosses his pauldrons in with it. Part of him wants to go back to Djarin and fight him until he’s too weak to stop Paz from taking his helmet. He could give it to one of the foundlings who actually deserve it. Another part of him that he hates for being right says it wouldn’t be fair, because he’s injured from the mudhorn. He grunts in frustration with himself.

The rest of the armor comes off and he digs around in his small corner space he’s designated for unnecessary item storage for polish. If he can’t beat his feelings into that kriffing bastard, then he can polish his armor until he can’t feel his fingers. He’s just sitting down on the edge of the bed when a heavy hand knocks on his door. He grumbles, stands, throws his cuirass over his head, and throws the door open with only a little more aggression it probably warrants. It’s one of the crowd that had been hovering near the Armory. Korina Doyvesky, his mind supplies.

“Alor wants you.”

“Isn’t she still with Djarin?” He tries to keep his voice neutral. He really does.

“He’s leaving now.”

“Fine. I’ll be there in a minute.”

She leaves and Paz shuts the door. He secures his armor back into place and looks at the beat up polish tin on his bed. With a sigh, he turns and exits the room. 

There are more people in the halls of the living area than in the areas near the Armory. Everyone has either heard Djarin is back, or heard the Armorer working and put the pieces together. Paz always warrants more attention when he’s back. He can feel them watching.

He arrives just in time to see Din leaving, his rushed footsteps and the set of his freshly beskar-clad shoulders giving away his distress. What has she said to hi- stop, you don’t care how he feels, and he probably deserves it, he reminds himself. He turns into the room.

The Armorer stands next to the jets of the forge. She is holding Djarin’s lump of metal that had once been a cuirass. There is a long scratch across the front he hadn’t noticed before. Had it been him to put it there? He certainly hopes so.

“You cannot try to kill him every time he enters the covert.”

“He doesn’t deserve to be here.”

“He is needed for the good of the aliit. He is the only one equipped to provide for us.”

“Tryst could easily take over. Or Sané.”

“Tryst is newly 20, and Sané is apprenticing under me, and preparing for riduurok. You would have them go out into danger, when they have such ties?”

“I am willing, if Djarin is forced out.”

“Din Djarin fills his role well, and he has experience everyone else, including you, lacks. He is part of this aliit, and he is welcome to stay.”

“Why? He has robbed the aliit of its members.”

“Don't forget, Paz Viszla, that you are not the only one who lost their family that night.” It’s been a long time since Paz has heard anger enter her voice. He shrinks remorsefully as he has since childhood. She takes a deep breath that buzzes through her helmet and tosses the cuirass into a pile of scraps near her bench.

“I know you will not listen if I ask you to talk to him, so all I will ask of you is civility. Do not fight him every time you see him, for the sake of the aliit.” Her voice is soft, and she approaches him until she is close enough to touch his shoulder. He can’t bring himself to mirror her gaze. She takes her hand away.

“Go do what you need to, vod’ika.” He is much too old to be crying, so why is there painful pressure behind his eyes when she uses the term?

He is standing to leave when Sané runs into the room.

“Djarin is surrounded by hunters in the street and he has a foundling!” She says, her finger already extended in the direction of the conflict. The Armorer holds his gaze for a beat and turns to her.

“Gather who you can. We will help him.” The girl turns and runs out, calling for assistance.

“I’ll go with them.” Paz is saying before he can think to stop himself.

“I was expecting to order you to.”

“He has a foundling, and I’m better than him. I will not let history repeat itself.”

“Then go. I will begin preparing the others for evacuation.”

He turns and follows the path to the entrance. His repeater is resting where he left it earlier on his way to confront Djarin. He swipes it up and attaches the magazine belt to his hip, carrying the weapon to the group forming near the entrance Djarin is so fond of. 

There is shuffling as the group run through their gear checks as quickly as they can. All together there are about 15 of them, and they all begin surging up the stairs. Paz brings up the rear of the pack and follows as they make their way through the streets, the sound of blasterfire as their guide.

As they get closer, Paz can make out the sounds of a flamethrower running out of fuel, and he’s always said he only uses his flamethrower when he has no other options and they either move now, or they’ll be too late.

“Go go go! We gotta move!” He’s yelling and the pack begins taking off. They’re firing before they even hit the ground, and Paz is already landing as close as he can to Djarin, making sure the kid is alright of course.

Confusion hits him when he looks down at the man and he’s shielding the kid with his body. The little one follows his gaze and looks directly at Paz. It’s tiny and fits entirely under Din’s chest with room to spare.

Paz breathes deeply and hefts his blaster cannon up to his hip.

“Get out of here! We’ll hold them off!” He hollers over the sound of his weapon, his eyes focusing on the falling hunters as much as he can.

“You’re going to have to relocate the covert.” Oh fierfek Din’s crying under his helmet and a wave of frustration, sadness and if he’s being honest with himself, the tiniest bit of love hits him square in the chest. He shoves the emotions away, turns to him briefly, and absorbs the scene. Din was truly ready to die for the child, and the bitterness of that reality is swallowed up by the painful feeling of knowing that exact pain intimately.

“This is the Way.” His voice is softer than he’d like, but at this point, he doubts Din will notice what he’s accidentally packaged in the tones.

“This is the Way.” His voice only cracks a tiny bit and Paz nods in response. If this is the last they ever see of each other, Paz is satisfied with that farewell, somehow.

He turns his attention back to the crowd of ill-equipped hunters and sprays them with bolts. Din slips behind him and bolts toward the shipyard. Paz lets his instincts take over and moves to cover his escape. 

Not one mandalorian has fallen by the time the meager hunters begin retreating. The smarter ones continue to fire at them and back away slowly, and others just cut and run. These are the ones that are much easier to gun down. Aliit on the roofs pick them off with shots to the back of the head or spine. No one is going to mention the way the event echoes with their memories later.

“Fall back to the covert! We need to begin the relocation.” Paz yells to the fighters around him. They let out calls of acknowledgement and begin to take off, moving back to the alleyway. Paz watches them go and holds his ground. Young Tryst pauses near him.

“Al’verde, why have you stopped?”

“I am going to make sure Djarin gets offplanet. Go join the others, verd.” The boy, because the Armorer is right, he is still so young, nods and turns the corner, no jetpack to carry him. Paz turns and runs to the shipyard, leaping off the ground and into flight near what looks like the body of a hunter who tried to get the jump on Din when he got to his ship. 

He follows the trail the Razor Crest has left in the clouds and catches up with the ship within moments. He looks into the cockpit and there he is. Din Djarin. The man he once thought he knew everything about. The man he knew nothing about. Well, maybe not nothing. Not anymore.

The Armorer’s words from earlier come to mind. “You will not listen if I ask you to talk to him.” Maybe he will have to prove her wrong. After all, things didn’t go as he expected today. Perhaps...

It can wait for another day.

He raises a hand and salutes the hunter, watching him nod in response. He peels away, shuts his jetpack off, and lets his weight carry him back to the ground. As he falls he watches the Razor Crest rise further away from the surface and toward space. He lands several miles away from the town and lets his eyes linger on the sky for a moment before he realizes he’s smiling below his helmet. One act of good does not balance Djarin’s wrongdoings. His shoulders tense and he turns, stomping his way back to the covert.

When he arrives, it is organized chaos. Squads of adults are carrying supplies and weapons from the living areas down to the lava flows, and as he makes his way to the Armory, he spots a pair of expectant women corralling a pack of adiik’e, calls of ‘udesii, udesii’ falling from their lips.

He weaves past them and makes it to the Armory. When he enters, the Armorer is hammering and forming helmets faster than he’s ever seen. They are thin, unpainted, void of any capabilities beyond coverage, and have no identifying marks. Sané is throwing scraps of metal and armor into piles only she knows the order of.

“Alor, everyone has returned and Djarin has made it offplanet with the foundling.”

“Good.” She doesn’t look up, and finishes soldering the helmet she’s working on, unceremoniously tossing it to a waiting child. They duck behind a curtain and return with the new helmet on, their old personal helmet in their hands. She stops the hammering of another new covering and points to a small pile of discarded helms near the door and the child drops it in, bolting out to assist with evacuation.

“You can hammer out a helmet, Viszla. Help me.” She is already moving back to the soldering iron to secure the visor in place.

He nods and moves to the anvil. It’s when he’s pulling a sheet from the stack of shapes she’s already cut that he sees they aren’t even made of beskar. He grabs her hammer and tongs and begins.

“What- hngh- is the purpose- hngh- of new helmets- hngh- for everyone?” He squeezes his words around each timed hammer swing.

“Djarin did not just deal with simple bounty hunters. It was imperials he betrayed, and they will know to look for the covert below ground. We must allow them to think we are dead. The helmets are being gathered so they may believe we were wiped out already.”

“You-hngh- would allow them -hngh- to collect it- hngh- as talbeskar?”

“No. I am staying behind to salvage the beskar.”

“No!” He stops hammering and looks at her in shock.

“We cannot leave with the helmets others have seen. They will track us throughout the galaxy. I cannot leave the beskar in their hands either. I will do what I must.” She finishes the saultering and hands the helmet she has finished to a teenager. He raises up the hammer and taps out a few more curves before checking it over and tossing it to her. It’s not as tidy as her work, but it’ll suffice. He picks up the next sheet and starts again.

“I will- hngh- stay with you.”

“You will not. I have another task for you.” She does not elaborate. He looks at her.

“What is the task you would have me complete?”

“Hammer, Paz. We have no time to be idle.” He begins again. “I would have you find Djarin and bring him to the new covert.”

“Do you- hngh- have a place- hngh- in mind?” His swings are only a little heavier than before, and he allows the small victory in his control.

“I do. You do not object to this assignment?” She glances at him curiously, her helmet tilted just a touch to the left. He doesn’t acknowledge it and she looks away to hand off the helmet to the next waiting aliit.

“You are- hngh- alor, and I- hngh- will follow- hngh- your instructions.”

“You were not hesitant in disagreeing with me not more than an hour ago. What changed?” What did he do, goes unspoken.

“I have not had the opportunity to understand yet myself.” She catches this helmet easily.

“You would do well to try.”

“Perhaps. Who- hngh- will lead- hngh- the tribe- hngh- to the new covert- hngh- in your stead?”

“Phithia.”

“Hngh- Kryvehl?”

“Yes. She is trusted. Ruunan.”

“And- hngh- the pilots- hngh- are ready?”

“They are preparing the ships now. All other members of the tribe are preparing and gathering supplies. When all is prepared, they will leave for the new location. Any other things you need to know?” She discards a broken visor piece and sauders down a fresh one.

“Yes. Hngh- what ship- hngh- am I taking?”

“I am giving you the Gaht’yc Abiik.” 

“Are you sure?” His arm wavers mid-swing and he is grateful for the tongs.

“Yes. She belongs back in the hands of a Viszla, and she will serve you well on your quest.”

“I will- hngh- take her then.”

“You will find the new covert on Saris.”

“I will leave with the others and only arrive with Djarin and the foundling.”

“Good.”

They fall into a steady rhythm of smithing, and if not for the rushing of aliit outside the room the operation would seem relaxed. The pile of helmets grows and grows, and at some point in the middle of the night, they discover Paz is the only one leaving who does not have a new helmet.

“I’m not going into hiding. Do you want me to take a new helmet?”

“No. You will need every advantage you can get.”

“Are you saying I’m incompetent, vod?” He touches into a teasing tone. She turns and he doesn’t need to even look at her body language to feel the playful glare she’s shooting him.

“You’d do well to help the evacuation efforts. Get the hell out of my forge, Viszla.”

He leaves with a loud laugh and hurries off to the living quarters.

Sané, who had been beginning to move the helmets into the hall, pauses and leans over to the Armorer.

“Did, did he just laugh?”  
“I suppose he did.”

“Whatever he saw up there, it must’ve changed something big.”

“Yes… yes, I think you’re right.”

\----

Once the supplies have all been moved onto the small collection of ships the clan had hidden when they established the covert, Paz goes back to his own quarters and begins collecting his own things for his mission.

He stuffs his spare under-armor and hygiene kit into a knapsack he digs out from under his bunk. His small collection of vibroblades go in after them, and he reaches onto his bed to yank the blanket off. His hand pauses next to the discarded tin of armor polish he had set down hours ago. 

He picks it up and looks at it intently. Din had made him so angry, and at some point he had forgotten.

How could Djarin do what he had done? He had allowed her to be taken, to be hurt, she who he had known intimately. She, who he had claimed to want in his life. He let her be hurt, but he wouldn’t allow the same for a child he barely knew? A child he had already sacrificed to the imperials? 

‘Perhaps you don’t know the facts. You weren’t there that night. He could’ve not been able.’ His mind offers. 

‘Or, perhaps, he wanted her out of your lives, so there were no obstacles? Maybe he’ll throw aside this child as well, as soon as it's profitable to him.’ He shoots back.

He throws the polish in his bag.

\----

He passes the Armory on his way out. The Armorer is throwing chunks of armor and a helmet or two into a crucible to be melted down into ingots. He steps in.

“We will be leaving soon.”

“I know.”

“Are you certain you will not go with the aliit?”

“I have made my choice, Paz Viszla. I am staying and finishing my work.”

“Alright. Comm me when you are ready for retrieval.” 

“I will. Take the lava flow as your exit.”

“Goodbye, ori’vod.” He doesn’t let his voice get thick.

“Goodbye, Paz’ika.” She looks at him, a touch of sadness hitting the undertones of her voice.

There are only a few stragglers left in the tunnels as he heads toward the lava flow. They are carrying their own scant personal valuables, and follow the same path he does. The lava flow has one raft and the decrepit old boat sealed to the bank on its surface, waiting for them. They all climb onto the raft and leave the boat. No evidence of their escape.

They let the flow carry them out of the tunnels and climb onto solid, albeit hot, ground. Paz and another older man tilt the raft vertically, letting it melt down and disappear into the molten rock. The group turns and begins the short trek to the ships.

The group transports appear to be standard cargo freighters. They open their holds and the last group climbs on board. Phithia is standing in front of one of them, and looks to him for his signal. He nods, and she acknowledges it. He watches as she signals the pilots to begin the takeoff sequence and climbs onto the last transport. The cargo bay doors close slowly, and he watches as his people begin their migration. A few of the adiik’e make it to the front of the group and wave to him, worry and sadness telegraphing through their stances. He does his best to seem as hopeful and relaxed as possible as he waves back. The door shuts before he can see their responses, and the ships take off.

He watches them go for a moment, then turns. There is only one ship remaining.

The Gaht’yc Abiik is a beautiful ship. All shining silvery blue and sleek angles. He syncs his vambrace up with the system and presses the entry button. Her ramp extends down to him with a hiss of hydraulics and a puff of steam. 

He walks up the ramp and sets his bag down. He shuts the door behind him and soon enough his hands find themselves touching the familiar walls and memory-soaked surfaces. Oh he'd missed Her.

He works his way up to the cockpit and takes a seat in the pilot's chair. It's still set to a shorter figure's height. He reaches down and adjusts it.

Paz had never been a good pilot. That was always a role someone else had played in his life. But here, now, in this ship, he knows exactly what to do.

He starts Her up and listens to her purr for a moment. The sound is pulled straight out of his subconscious, and he revels in it. The feeling of an engine running, the way a ship feels below your feet. He's not used to any of these things anymore.

It takes a long while for him to get off the ground. Every system he starts, he pauses to acclimate to. Eventually, he gets off the ground, and he's taking Her through the skies, where she belongs. When he breaks the atmosphere, he has one thought on his mind.

If I was Din Djarin, where would I be?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a:   
> Aliit: clan or family  
> riduurok: wedding vows  
> vod'ika: term of endearment for a younger sibling or friend  
> Al'verde: commander  
> verd: soldier  
> adiik'e: children  
> udesii: calm down  
> alor: leader, chief  
> talbeskar: blood beskar, my own word mash of tal, meaning blood, and beskar, beskar gathered from the armor of dead bodies, the imperial beskar falls into this category  
> ruunan: reliable, also a popular woman's name  
> Gaht'yc Abiik: Polar Air  
> vod: sibling, can be used like 'bro'  
> ori'vod: big sibling, older friend  
> Paz'ika: little Paz, term of endearment 
> 
> All my mando'a translations are from mando'a.org. 
> 
> Come yell at me on my tumblr @singsofbly


	3. the wonders of rural society

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Din and the child come to Sorgan, and the quiet lets Din reflect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the mando'a and other translations/world-building notes will be at the end, as usual :). 
> 
> This one was a lot of just little things and quiet moments. I added one little scene at the end which isn't in the show, but oh well.
> 
> Thanks for popping by! Love from your vod.

Turns out, once the adrenaline wears off, leaving behind your home and your tribe with no warning sours your mood. It doesn’t help when, for all you know, they’ve all been killed, and it’s your fault.

The child cooed from the position he had managed to get to on the dashboard while the swirling smudges of blue and white shortened to stars as the  _ Razor Crest _ reverted to real space. With a small noise Din was beginning to suspect meant curiosity, the little one watched as the man began flicking switches and adjusting settings. Gaze stuck on the viewport, the child leaned over and flicked a switch, some component of Din thought maybe the coolant line humming to life. 

“Stop touching things.” Din held out a slight hope the  _ ad’ika  _ couldn’t entirely understand the depth and nuance in his tone. If someone else could notice, then he’d have to admit to himself that he’s-  _ hey, there’s nothing to admit, shut up, brain. Everyone gets a little grumpy sometimes. _

The child looked right at him and flicked another switch. One of the stabilizers unlocked and the ship started rocking with the force of the engines. Din reached over and turned it off, lifting the kid into his lap. The oddness of the situation chafed at his mind. He pulled up the star charts and started running through the systems.

“Let’s see. Sorgan. Looks like there’s no star port, no industrial centers, no population density.” He listed to the kid. “Real backwater skug hole, which means it’s perfect for us. Ready to lay low and stretch your legs for a couple of months, you little womp rat?” The kid looked at him with a small noise and he almost felt bad for the monking term of endearment.

After so long alone, it was bizarre to talk out loud in space, but part of him kind of enjoyed it.  _ You could’ve had this before,  _ his mind unhelpfully supplies. His mood worsened.

“Nobody’s gonna find us here.” At least until he wants them to. And they’ll have to start looking for the new covert eventually. Cross that nebula when they get to it, though. For now, seclusion.

Sorgan was lush and green, large trees and lakes across the majority of its surface, and a few villages Din spotted during his flight overhead. He spotted a clearing close enough to one of them to be within walking distance but far enough for some privacy. It was a simple maneuver to set the  _ Razor Crest _ down in the grass. He flicked the systems off and took the kid’s hands from the joystick and into his own. He felt it when his tiny little claws wrapped around his fingers.

“Now listen, I’m gonna go out there and I’m gonna look around. It shouldn’t take too long.” He stood and put the little one in his seat, doing his absolute best to force an I-am-the-adult-and-you-will-listen-to-me glare through his visor. His  _ buir _ had always managed to make his terrifying, but somehow, Din didn’t think he was matching it.

“Now, don’t touch anything. I’ll find us some lodging, then I’ll come back for you. You stay right here. You stay. Don’t move. You understand?” Yeah. Definitely not matching it.The little one hummed, and at this point, that was the closest he was going to get to a ‘yes’. “Great.”

The door hissed its way to the ground and by the time it hit dirt, the child had appeared at his side. The kid looked up at him with a gentle babble and all he could find within himself to do was sigh.

“Oh, what the hell? Come on.” They began the short walk into the small town together. He adjusted his stride to accommodate the tiny little steps the child took, his typical broad and purpose-driven lunges cut to a fraction of their usual distance. 

The little village they meandered into was sparse. When the star charts said no population density, they meant it. The entire community seemed to be gathered solely in the tavern at its center. There were groups at tables chattering cheerfully, and one of the cooks was calling out while meat sizzled on the grill. The feeling of eyes on you is heavy, and even in this tavern-only town, Din could feel the way there was a pause in every conversation the pair of them walked past.

The child stepped too close to a patron’s tooka, and the feline hissed, its teeth bared. The toddler yelped and stumbled back, nearly reaching out to grab at the edge of Din’s cape. He held back a chuckle and went back to scanning the area carefully.

He spotted an empty table and leaned down, listing the child into a chair with unpracticed tenderness. He circled around the furniture and took a seat far enough to see behind him, but close enough to catch him if he fell out of his chair. It also conveniently matched up with his line of sight attached to the armored woman in the back corner. He leaned an elbow on the table. 

“Welcome travelers.” One of the hosts approached the table, wiping her hands on a towel as she walked. “Can I interest you in anything?”

“Bone broth, for the little one.” Funny. That was word for word what his  _ buir _ had said the first time he took him to a pub on Concordia.

“Oh, well, you’re in luck. I just took down a grinjer, so there’s plenty. Can I interest you in a porringer of broth as well?” That would hit a little too close to a soft spot for today.

“Just the one.” He kept eye-contact. She nodded with a light “very well.”

“That one over there.” He gave his head a miniscule toss in the direction of the woman staring at him over the edge of her cup. The server glanced over. “When did she arrive?”

“I, uh, I’ve seen her here for the last week or so.” She toed the line of a shrug.

“What’s her business here?”

“Business? Oh, well, there’s not much business in Sorgan, so I can’t… say…” Her chuckled words elongated into confusion as he tossed a credit chit onto the table between them. 

“She doesn’t strike me as a log runner, well, thank you, sir. I will get that broth to you as soon as possible, and I will throw in a flagon of spotchka just for good measure. I will be right back with that.” When she stepped away, the woman in the corner was gone. He stood up, keeping an eye on the opposite wall as he flicked another credit at the server.

“Keep an eye on the kid.”

“Yes, sir.” She pocketed the credit, confusion tugging her voice. He didn’t have the time to dwell on how that easy authority belonged to men like his  _ buir _ and Paz and not him.

He threw the curtains at the door open and stepped into the empty street, his hand on his blaster as he scanned the area. She hadn’t gone into the woods, so he tapped at his wrist and looked to the ground, following the red outlines of her fresh footprints around the back of the building. They stopped and he had started looking around, searching for where she’d climbed away when she swung down on him and landed a solid kick to his chest. 

He stumbled and she landed a punch to his helmet, throwing him into the wall. Was that the ding of the beskar or were his ears ringing? He didn’t get a chance to consider it before she was throwing another punch and he was ducking out of the way on reflex. She winced, flexing her hand before he landed a fist in her gut and grabbed her shoulder. She gripped his arm and used it as leverage to drive a knee into his abdomen and throw him against the wall. 

She turned on him and started advancing again, but he got a kick in on her knee and drove two punches into her face while she regained her balance. She blocked a third swing and got her own in and the ringing is definitely both. He shook his head once and scored in her gut. She folded over and took a breath before coming back up and grabbing him by the under armor, her next punch sending him to the ground. 

He pushed himself onto his elbows and flicked on his newly refilled flamethrower before swinging at her with it with a heavy grunt. She stomped down on his wrist and leaned down, hands going to his throat. He reached up with his free hand and grabbed hers in response, using the half-second her foot lifted from his arm to grab her ankle, roll over her, and ready his fist to swing down. 

She slipped her legs around and used them to flip him off, throwing them into a synchronized roll as they both refused to let go of the other’s wrist. During their rotation they both managed to pull their blasters out, pointing them across the small gap between their heads.

There was a quiet slurping from his left, and they looked over to see the little one, holding a cup of broth and watching the exchange with wide eyes. He looked back at her first.

“Want some soup?”

They found their table again, and Din waved off the frantic server with a gesture to the child at his side. The woman sat across from his seat as he put the child back up. 

“So when did you serve?” He didn’t need to point to the tattoos.

“Saw most of my action mopping up after Endor. Mostly ex-imperial warlords. They wanted it fast and quiet. They’d send us in on the drop ships. No support, just us. Then when the Imps were gone, the politics started.” He tilted his head slightly, and her expression shifted from mellow to troubled.

“We were peacekeepers, protecting delegates, suppressing riots. Not what I signed up for.” She finished. He made a show of looking around casually.

“How’d you end up here?” 

“Let’s just call it an early retirement.” She took a sip of the drink she’d grabbed from her table on the way over. “Look, I knew you were Guild. I figured you had a fob on me. That’s why I came at you so hard.”

“Yeah that’s what I figured.” He watched as she stood.

“Well, this has been a real treat, but unless you wanna go another round, one of us is gonna have to move on, and I was here first.” She drained her cup and set it down on the table, lumbering away. He watched her leave and shifted his attention to the kid.

“Well, looks like this planet’s taken.” He leaned closer, propping his arm on the table and going back to scanning the room. 

The quiet sipping noises the child made while he drank made him smile. He had a distinct memory of his  _ buir _ sitting across from him, watching him gulp down cup after cup of broth less than a day after he’d been found. It was surreal to be on the opposite side of that interaction, but the softness he felt stirring in his chest made him understand the way his  _ buir  _ had waited through nearly three cups before telling him to slow down.

His mood dropped again when the little one finished and they returned to the  _ Razor Crest.  _ The ship needed a few light tune-ups before they could leave, and staying at any location they weren’t gonna stick to for longer than necessary made him nervous. That, and the bugs on Sorgan were relentless.

The proximity sensors he’d set up before starting on the  _ Crest _ pinged, and a few minutes later a vehicle holding two young men meandered into the clearing. They barely looked suited for farmwork, much less fighting. He ignored them in the hopes they’d pass by and go about their business. It seemed he would have no such luck, however, because they slowed to a stop and climbed off their little hover cart, approaching him with a lantern in hand.

“Excuse me.” Oh please let them not be talking to him.

“Excuse me, sir?” Little gods damn it.

“There something I can help you with?” He did his best to not grumble at the pair, but his exasperation leaked through his teeth and past his helmet. 

“Uh, yeah. Raiders.” The one he was guessing was younger shuffled around the landing gear he had tried to escape under.

“We have money.” The other offered with no fanfare.

“So, you think I’m some kind of mercenary?” He responded, his arm wrist deep in wiring.

“You are a mandalorian, right?” The bigger asked, his words lacking a layer of flowery wording he was accustomed to with clients, and he found himself appreciating it under the several layers of annoyance.

“Or at least, wearing mandalorian armor. That is mandalorian armor, right?” The younger one added.

“It is.”

“See? I told him. Sir, I’ve read a lot about your people, er, uh, tri- tribe? If half of what I read is true-” 

“We have money.” Oh, sweet sweet direct and to the point offers.

“How much.” It was a question, technically, but intonation indicated interest, and Din had other things to do with his time.

“Everything we have, sir. Our whole harvest was stolen.”

“Krill. We’re krill farmers.” 

“We brew spotchka. Our whole village chipped in.” Din let out a short sigh to himself and turned around, looking down at the small bag in the direct one’s hand.

“It’s not enough.”

“Are you sure? You don’t even know what the job is.” So the smaller one is an optimistic sort.

“I know it’s not enough. Good luck.”

“This is everything we have. We’ll give you more after the next harvest.” Ah, and Direct One is forceful.

Din shut them down the best way he knew how at this point. His finger pressed into the panel in front of him and the ramp of the  _ Razor Crest _ hissed loudly, hydraulics opening. The pair jumped back and watched as he brushed past them, climbing into his ship.

“Come on. Let’s head back.”

“Took us the whole day to get here. Now we have to ride back, with no protection, to the middle of nowhere.” Direct One complained, shooting several glares over his shoulder. Din paused at the top of the ramp. The whole day, huh?

“Where do you live?” He turned around, garnering their attention without needing to raise his voice.

“On a farm. Weren’t you listening? We’re farmers.”

“In the middle of nowhere?” He reaffirmed. Nowhere means nothing to attract outsiders. No outsiders, no hunters.

“Yes.”

“You have lodging?” Realization started to brighten their expressions, and they turned their bodies fully to him.

“Y-yeah. Absolutely.”

“Good. Come up and help.” He turned, his boots thumping on the floor of the  _ Crest _ ’s hold. They scrambled up the ramp after him. He gave them quick directions and they quickly loaded several crates of weapons and ammo onto the hovercart they’d ridden in on. After the last crate was set down, he turned to the direct one, Stoke.

“I’m gonna need one more thing. Give me those credits.”

Cara Dune was easy to find, all things considered. She’d set up a little camp in the woods near the outskirts of the little town, and he found her propped against a tree, a fire crackling by her side. He dropped the bag of credits between her and the fire, and earned a blaster aimed at his gut for his trouble.

“Ready for round two?”

She snatched up the bag of credits and stood, sliding the blaster into her holster. She followed him back to the  _ Razor Crest _ where Stoke and the smaller one, Caben had the hovercart waiting. The kid smiled at him from behind an ammo crate. He rolled his eyes and climbed on. Cara followed.

“So we’re basically running off a bunch of raiders for lunch money?” She asked once they got moving.

“They’re quartering us in the middle of nowhere. Last I checked, that’s a pretty square deal for somebody in your position. Worst case scenario, you tune up your blaster. Best case, we’re a deterrent. I can’t imagine there’s anything living in these trees that an ex-shock trooper couldn’t handle.” She raised an eyebrow at him. He knew she couldn’t see the smug look on his face, but his tone was enough.

He leaned back, his arms going to the side of the cart. The stars were very easy to see through the gaps in the treetops, and the unfamiliar constellations brought him a sense of calm. The bright little specks of light he’d had the pleasure of seeing up close peeking through green-laden boughs brought his thoughts to the woods on Concordia, and he almost felt like if he blinked, he’d wake up and see his  _ buir _ driving the cart, the pair of them coming in late from a hunt loaded with game, or credits. That was so long ago now. 

“Everyone, they’re here!” At some point he’d dozed off, and the voices of a flock of children woke him. He set up and looked around, his flicking gaze settling on the pack of laughing young ones running in their direction. They made a beeline for the child, who had settled against the edge of the cart, eager for outside positive attention.

“Well, looks like they’re happy to see us.” Din commented goodnaturedly.

“Looks like.” Cara didn’t respond with much enthusiasm, but her relaxed shoulders betrayed her good mood. It’s nice to wake up to the laughter of children instead of the screams of the dying. 

The kid giggled at all the extra fawning. The pack of children all let out coos and noises, saying things along the lines of ‘he’s so cute’ and greeting the little one in soft tones. He smiled, with only himself as the witness, and climbed out of the cart.

Unloading was much faster than loading. Farmers had followed their enthusiastic children at a slower pace and immediately began helping move all his supplies into the village proper. He picked up one of his crates and followed the flow of their traffic to a small barn, stepping onto the small porch and into the entrance. There was no one but a single woman inside. She looked up from the rope she was tying to a post and met his gaze.

“Please come in.” Her voice was soft, with a warm tone that sounded like it was the sort designed for lullabies. He stepped past and set the crate down on top of a rifle case.

“I hope this is comfortable for you. Sorry that all we have is the barn.”

“This will do fine.” He gestured with his head, a slight nod, without turning to look at her. She didn’t do the same.

“I stacked some blankets over here.” 

“Thank you. That’s very kind.” He slid his rifle sling off his shoulder and leaned the weapon against a box of ammo. A set of footsteps outside the door reached his ears, and he twisted, his hand already holding his blaster. There was a yelp, and a small girl tucked herself out of sight beyond the door frame.

The woman glanced at him and moved quickly to the door, gently pulling the girl into her side. Her short arms instantly went around her waist and her face buried into her dress. The woman stroked a hand over her hair and met his gaze.

“This is my daughter, Winta. We don’t get a lot of visitors around here. She’s not used to strangers.” Her tone changed, and Din was willing to bet there was a story there, but not for right now. “This nice man is going to help protect us from the bad ones.”

“Thank you.” The girl, Winta, untucked her face and looked up at him with apprehension in her gaze. Din did his best to calm her by giving her an exaggerated nod, guilt pointing at his conscience and laughing.

“Come on, Winta. Let’s give our guests some room.” The woman, who hadn’t actually given her name, took her daughter’s hand and smiled over her shoulder at him as they left. It was a nice smile; soft, and nurturing.

He finished shuffling his things around and left the barn to return to the hovercart. On his way, he found the kid waddling through the grass, a cluster of four or five other children watching him as he explored. With a huff he slipped past them and swiped the little one into his arms. The small one made an indignant squeak and wriggled a bit.

“ _ Udesii _ , little one. It’s just me.” The child twisted and settled into his arms, looking up at him with a smile and a coo. He resisted the temptation to tap their foreheads together and turned around, breaking through the crowd of children that let out groans of disappointment.

At some point after he had left to help move the supplies into town, a crib had been brought into the barn. Din made a mental note to try and find out who he should thank. The little one settled into the space without much complaint, and he reached behind him to grab at the stack of blankets the woman had left. He dropped the fabric over the edge and let the child curl under it, falling into a light doze. 

The personality the child displayed was becoming a reoccurring light in Din’s routine, and he turned away to begin cleaning and prepping all his blasters. The work was slow going, but it was nice to have a chance to get it done. 

Sorgan was nice, he decided. The fresh air, miles of lush forest, plenty of room for a little one to grow and learn to take care of themselves. He himself learned so many of his skills in a forest just like this.  _ Buir _ would drop him off in the middle of the woods with only his helmet, his clothes, and a knife and make him find his way back to the nearest town. He’d spend the next few days hunting and scavenging all his food, fighting off assorted fauna that came after him and killing the animals that didn’t turn and run. 

Eventually, he’d wander into a town filthy and exhausted and flop down across from his expectant  _ buir _ at a table in the closest tavern. He’d get a single nod of approval, a key to the ship, and 30 minutes to get cleaned up.

He missed his  _ buir _ . He had been a quiet, serious man, choosing not to participate in whatever rowdy antics the other adults got up to. He was intuitive though, and while his affection for  _ ne’tra gal _ may have been a factor, his habit of hanging around taverns was mostly to listen in on what was happening with others. It was what made him especially deadly. 

He paused and glanced out the window. Cara was sitting at a bench with several of the villagers, eating a light meal.

A quiet chirp crossed the room. The little one had stood in the crib, watching him work with a cocked head. He angled his body to give the kid a better view as he scrubbed at the weapon in his hand.

“Knock knock.” The woman was at the door again. 

“Come in.” He set the rifle down and looked up at her. She entered the room without caution or ceremony, a tray of food balanced on her hand. Her daughter, Winta, came bouncing in after her, eyes almost immediately falling on the kid. She looked up at her mother in a silent question and smiled shyly when she nodded in response. She looked at Din through her eyelashes.

“Can I feed him?” Din turned and glanced over her.

“Sure.”

“Are you hungry?” The child cooed in response and nibbled the food in her hand, prompting a giggle. Din watched the interaction carefully out of the corner of his eye, unwrapping a scope with several flicks of his wrist.

“Can I play with him?” She looked up at him with big eyes. Din let out a sigh to himself and set the scope down.

“Sure.” The kid hummed happily as he lifted him out of the crib and set him onto the ground. He could feel the woman watching him passively.

“Come on.” Winta skipped out of the doorway and off the porch. The little one babbled brightly and followed.

“I don’t think-” Din lunged after them before the woman’s hand settled on his elbow, slowing him.

“They’ll be fine.” She reassured him, her grip every pound a parent’s pressure.

I don’t-”

“They’ll be fine.” Din glanced at her and relented, stepping back to give her his attention. She smiled at him and gestured to the tray she’d brought. 

“I brought you some food. I noticed you didn’t eat out there. I’ll leave it here for when I go.” He was slightly taken aback by the action. Most clients want your business, and extending extra kindnesses isn’t common. 

“That’s very thoughtful of you.” He said quietly. She nodded like it was the textbook course of action. He turned back to his supplies and picked the scope up to buff it. She didn’t move to leave.

“Do you mind if I ask you something?”

“Go ahead.”

“How long has it been since you’ve taken that off?” He tilted his head back and forth in consideration.

“Yesterday.” 

“I mean, in front of someone else.” 

He paused, picking up the rag he’d used on the scope, and began to absentmindedly fold it up. He turned and looked out the window, tossing a limp finger in the direction of the crowd of kids outside.

“I wasn’t much older than they are.” She watched them for a moment and turned to him in surprise.

“You haven’t shown your face to anyone since you were a kid?”

“No. I was happy that they took me in. My parents were killed, and the mandalorians took care of me.” It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was a lot more information than he’d normally volunteer, and sharing this much with a woman he’d just met felt bizarre. 

“I’m sorry.” Her eyes flickered across his shoulders, doing her best to fill in the gaps left by his lack of expression.

“This is the Way.” That line startled him. It felt natural, to say it to someone with whom he’d just shared intimate knowledge. He and Paz would- no. 

“Let us know if there’s anything you need.” She offered, turning toward the door.

“Thank you.” he responded with genuine gratitude. She nodded and made for the door.

“One thing, actually.” He said quickly. She turned on the porch, eyes inviting the request.

“What’s your name?”

“Omera.” Her eyes curled in at the corners, cheeks rising up, and she smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a translations, courtesy of mandoa.org:  
> ad'ika: little one, son, daughter  
> buir: parent  
> udesii: calm down  
> ne'tra gal: black ale
> 
> other notes:  
> Concordia is a naturally forested moon in Mandalore space that lost most of its forestry to mining. It's notably the base of Death Watch at the beginning of the Clone Wars. Din was rescued by Death Watch at some point during the CW, so I've chosen it as a sort of home where his buir raised him.  
> The forehead tap that Din makes reference to is called a mirshmure'cya, or Keldabe kiss, (literally brain-kiss), which is a gentle headbutt or a pressing of the foreheads together. It's a kind of kiss for when a mando'ade is in full armor. Interestingly, it's based on the real life Māori hongi. If you wanna be depressed, an excellent example is when Boba finds his father's head in the geonosian arena in Attack of the Clones.


	4. Cherish peace while you have it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mandalorian's life may hold peace, but the nature of it often means it is fleeting. Din teaches the villagers, and he doesn't figure out how to let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is far, far, far overdue. My only real explanation is a few days before I was finished and ready to release this, the drama with Gina Carano happened. That, in conjunction with Rosario Dawson being rumored to have been cast as (and as we now know actually play) Ahsoka in season 2, it was really difficult for me to write for this without freaking out a bit. I'm not exactly the most cis crayon in the box, and it's hard to watch an episode with a character played by a transphobe without getting distracted and/or uncomfortable. 
> 
> However, I am, hopefully, over this writing block, and I'll be more prompt about the next update!
> 
> In an attempt to get over my writer's block, I also made a playlist for this! You can find it here! https://open.spotify.com/playlist/37UtVtJYBfYEsDq6bRDVp1?si=_IKSLcY2S-qoH1FYmWyv7A
> 
> As per usual, the mando'a is in the end notes. Enjoy! :)

“About 15 or 20 of them came through here on foot. And something big sheared off those branches.” Din pointed the overhanging debris out to Cara as she took in the area. He moved to a spot near the scene and crouched in front of the massive patch of flattened soil and grass.

“AT-ST.” She muttered next to him, an angry edge to her voice.

“Imperial walker. What’s it doing here?” His gaze rose, taking in the path the thing must’ve taken.

“I don’t know. But this is more than I signed up for.” She stood with him, following his line of sight.

They turned around and weaved their way back to the village. Din spread his vision around the area and found the little one, engrossed in a game Winta was leading. It brought a smile to his face, but the expression soured when they climbed up onto his temporary house’s porch and the villagers gathered around them. Once they’d all made their approach, he relayed the only solution he could think of.

“Bad news. You can’t live here anymore.”

“What? Why?” Caben and Stoke, ever the pair, were first to voice their confusion.

“Nice bedside manner.” Cara mumbled to him, a wilted smirk crossing her face.

“You think you can do better?” He grumbled.

“Can’t do much worse.” She retorted and stepped up to the edge of the makeshift stage. “I know this is not the news you wanted to hear, but there are no other options.”

“You took the job.” Stoke complained, a thick haze of muttered agreement filling the air between them and the crowd.

“That was before we knew about the AT-ST.” She snapped, annoyance coloring her tone.

“What is that?” He asked, genuinely confused.

“The armored walker with two enormous guns that you knew about and didn’t tell us.” Her voice raised in pitch as she got more angry. Din worried he’d have to step in if she got any more riled up.

“Help us, please.” 

“You’re supposed to help us.” 

“But we hired you.” 

“Please.” The flock of farmers begged, fear setting in.

“We have nowhere to go.” Omera pulled Winta into her side gently and took the helm of the village’s voice.

“Sure you do. This is a big planet. I mean, I’ve seen a lot smaller.” Cara responded, posture growing defensive.

“My grandparents seeded these ponds.” Caben stated like it was obvious.

“It took generations.” Stoke backed him.

“I understand. I do. But there are only two of us.” Cara did her best to show them sympathy, but the villagers were going to hold their ground.

“No, there’s not. There’s at least 20 here.”

“I mean fighters. Be realistic.” Cara’s frustration was causing her voice to flow out higher and higher.

“We can learn.”

“We can.”

“Give us a chance.”

“Please.”

“I’ve seen that thing take out entire companies of soldiers in a matter of minutes.” She hisses through her teeth, loud, angry, and laced with trauma.

“We’re not leaving.” Omera answers, unrelenting and solid in motivation as well as objective.

“You cannot fight that thing.” Cara’s voice drops to a concerned moan.

“Unless we show them how.” Din cut in after a pause, meeting her gaze head-on. She raises her eyebrows and sighs. He tosses his head at the door and lets her in first, stepping into the room behind her.

“Mando, you can’t be serious about this? Have you fought one of those things before?” She spins on him and bounces a fist on his shoulder. He looks between her and his shoulder slowly, gathering his thoughts.

“Yes, before you even joined the rebellion.” He grunted.

“When, then, and where? How many have you taken down, with a pack of farmers at your back?” She growled. He leveled his helmet at her, heat burning in his throat and chest. Without a word, he gestured to himself, knocking his knuckles against his chest with a ding.

“We all have a past, Dune, so watch it. You’re not the only one who lost their system to the Imps.”

“Alright, I’m sorry, but you don’t really think these people can match a pack of mandalorians?” She was genuine in her apology, but she held her ground.

“I’ve seen a mandalorian warrior single handedly take down an AT-ST and a squad of stormtroopers at once in defence of his home and known others to do the same. I think with enough prep, we can at least have them hold off the raiders while we handle the walker.”

“Who’s this warrior then? Is he here, because last I checked it was only you.” She jabbed at his chest. He held in a growl and took a step back until she couldn’t touch him.

“That’s none of your business. He’s probably dead now anyway.” His throat tightened. He hadn’t even really allowed himself the time to acknowledge the fact entirely.

“Do you have a plan for taking it on then?” She crossed her arms tightly across her chest. He brought himself back to reality and answered.

“I’m leaving it to you, considering you apparently are such an expert on AT-ST’s.” He bit out at her and turned to leave. She grabbed his shoulder.

“Mando, I’m sorry. I got in my head and I forgot, but these aren’t mandalorians. Can you really expect this of them?”

“I can, and I will.” He hissed between his teeth and shook her hand off, throwing the curtain aside. He needed to go for a walk and cool off. 

He didn’t get very far, because he’d entirely forgotten about the crowd of waiting villagers standing outside the building. Omera looked at him, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. 

“We’ll figure something out.” He muttered and pushed his way past them. The kid waved small arms at him until he swiped him up and out of town.

Sorgan had tall trees. They were big and straight and thick, standing sentinel to everything that happened under their branches. It stirred thoughts of blue armor and heavy steps. It made Din feel safe. He found a particularly round one and sat on the ground at its roots, his back against its bark. The child settled into his lap and looked up at him with those clear, dark eyes. He sighed and dropped his helmet against the tree.

“You’re judging me, aren’t you?” It wasn’t so much a question as a statement, an analysis of his own position. The kid cooed and put a clawed hand on his arm.

“I guess I couldn’t blame you. It’s been a bit too long for a battle-hardened mandalorian to be caught missing another life. Another person. People.” He sniffed. The kid’s hand was warm, and frankly, Din couldn’t remember the last time someone touched him with the intent to comfort him sincerely. Frankly, he can’t remember the last time someone touched him with the intent to comfort at all. The little one hummed, climbing higher up his body. 

“Do you mind if we just sit here for a little while?” He asked. His throat was tight, and it burned without any heat. The Armorer would probably say he needed to confront his pain and find its root, work to overcome it. Not that that was even possible now. What good is a dead person’s advice anyway. The kid blinked.

He let himself drift for a few minutes, running a hand over the back of the kid’s head. The infant leaned into the touch. The repetitive motion soothed him, and he let the kid lean against him, guiding his tiny head from his silvery shell to the soft patch of fabric under his pauldron. 

God he missed the way things were. The purge was years ago, the rise of the empire even further back. He was barely able to hunt on his own when the stormtroopers came to Concordia. He had hazy memories of the Armorer, nearing her 18th year, eager to fight them. The whole moon was, really. Even Paz, two years beyond him, would slam his shoulders against their plastoid shells as he stomped his way through town. Back then Din had found it endlessly attractive. Now he just thought it was foolish confidence born of a better time.

The child tapping his helmet with alarmed squawks brought him back to the present. He realized with a start that he was crying. He coughed roughly and sniffed.

“I’m alright  _ ad’ika _ . Let’s head back to the village, huh? Get you some food.” He swallowed the trickles of fluid collecting in the back of his throat and stood, adjusting the kid in his arms. The little one looked at him for a long moment. He had the vague impression the emotion he saw in that gaze was doubt that Din was, in fact, alright, but the kid rested his head on his shoulder regardless and stuck a thumb in his mouth. 

The walk back to the village put the little one to sleep in his arms. At that point, the villagers had thankfully dispersed, and he navigated his way to the house quickly. The crib was waiting for them, and he laid the kid down delicately, tucking the blanket around tiny shoulders. He brushed a thumb over a soft face and turned, exiting the building in search for Cara. They had a fight to plan for.

\----

“You got two problems here.You got the bandits, and you got the mech. We’ll handle the AT-ST, but you gotta protect us when they come out of the woods, and I don’t have to tell you how dangerous they are. Cara Dune here is a veteran. She was a drop soldier for the rebellion, and she’s gonna lay out a plan for you, so listen carefully.” If Din’s voice was particularly raspy, no one said anything. He stepped back and allowed Cara to take the lead.

“Now there’s nothing on this planet that can damage the legs on this thing, so we’re gonna build a trap.We’re gonna need to dig real deep, right here, so that when it steps in, it drops.” She pointed to her sides where she was flanked by the krill ponds. “The two of us will hit their camp. Provoke them. That’ll bring the fight out of the woods and down here to us.” She glanced at him, a question in her expression. Din nodded his approval and gestured to the strongest of the group, gesturing for them to follow him.

“I’m gonna need you to cut down trees and build barricades along these edges. I need it high enough so they can’t get over, and strong enough so that it can’t break through.” He pointed to the outer rings of the town between the first houses and the krill beds. He left them to the task and returned to the main group.

“Okay. Who knows how to shoot?” 

\----

Din was good at compartmentalizing. The haze of the day and the flashes of the battle fit itself into a box, and the box fit itself onto other boxes on a massive stack he’d labeled ‘for a later day’. If he had his way, that day would come after he was dead.

Unfortunately his mind had different ideas, because while that little metaphorical box found a spot in the pile, it knocked another over, and while he stared into the shell of the AT-ST, empty of all but flames and death, he saw more than he wanted to.

First it was the family at the outskirts of his home town on Concordia, their rickety old barn and livestock crushed by some rowdy AT-ST pilots. The whole family had been in the center of town for a party, and when they came home, their oldest, 16, had thrown all caution to the wind and jumped onto the craft, scaling it and pulling one pilot half-way out of the viewport before the other shot her between the plates of her cuirass. She’d fallen off the craft, landed on her back, punctured a lung, and died within the hour. 

Her  _ buire _ had appealed to the local governor that the pilots receive disciplinary action. It was overturned on the grounds of self-defence. The entire town received a new curfew for their trouble, with the small mercy of the pilots’ transfer as an afterthought.

The second incident was the library, if you could even call it that. The community had designated one house, closer to the center of the village, as the pool of all their chronicles and history, some of it system-wide, most of it local.  _ Buire _ would bring their  _ ade _ there for group lessons, or to pick a new topic to learn. The new pilots weren’t happy with their recent station, and used the cannons on the only building they knew was unoccupied at the time. No one, even the  _ aliit’alor _ , bothered with a complaint this time. 

Next it was his own cabin he lived in with his  _ buir _ . They were away on a hunt, and returned to their foyer crushed and family heirlooms looted. His  _ buir’s _ gloves had creaked with the force of his clenched fists. They barricaded the hole with the leftover timber and the help of a few friends and spent the next few weeks using the emergency exit getting in and out. 

Then the purge had started. He was never going to forget the image of his damaged home crushed under a walker, or the sound of his  _ buir’s _ helmet hitting his knee with a clang as he fell to a blast at the base of his unprotected neck. Paz had taken his hand and pulled him into the woods with the rest of the fleeing clan. Din never saw who’d delivered the shot. 

A coo broke his eye contact with the flickering orange around the walker, and he looked down to find the child at his knee. He exhaled and crouched down, tucking his gloves under the little one’s arms and lifting him into his elbow. It was time for some sleep. Din hoped he could keep his eyes shut for more than an hour.

\----

Sorgan did something to him. Maybe it was the consistent days. Maybe it was the peace. Maybe it was the community he hadn’t truly experienced in years. The covert had been open to him, but after what happened with Paz… the man had always held more sway than he knew. Din got used to making his visits short. 

He liked being able to talk to people without them seeing his failures first. 

The kid loved it. He got food Din was pretty sure was closer to a natural diet for his species, at least compared to ration packs. He slept somewhere more comfortable than the makeshift hammock he’d stretched across the Razor Crest’s tiny berth. He saw other kids, and other kids to play with meant more games. Winta had taken it upon herself to make him her new best friend, and the rest of the children soon followed suit. He rather liked the way his heart swelled at the sound of tiny giggles.

He and Cara spent the first few days after the raid helping tidy up, so to speak. The walker was too heavy to rope up and haul into the woods, so he and a few villagers went back to the Razor Crest to get his cutting tools. They dismantled the machine and moved it out of town, and when their task was finished, they worked on reconstructing the destroyed houses.

On the last day of construction, he took a short break to head inside and cool off. He stopped by the well with a cup and brought it with him. When he came out again, his chestplate let out a sudden ‘cong’, punctuated by a startled, ‘oh!’. His hands shot out and grabbed Omera’s arms, steadying her on the porch.

“You alright?” He waited until she was oriented to drop his grip on her biceps. She chuckled and repositioned the jar she was holding to rest on her hip. 

“Yes, thank you. I'm sorry, I didn’t know you were inside. I should’ve knocked.”

“It's okay.” He said, falling silent. Her eyes trained on his visor for a moment, before she blinked and moved the jar into his view.

“I brought you some water, so you don’t have to run back and forth between the well and here every time you want a drink.” Her lips smoothed outward in a smile. He tilted his head down to the container and back up to her, bringing his hands up to cup its base and neck.

“Thank you.” 

In Din’s experience outside of a mandalorian setting, the way he lapsed into quiet put people off. They would squirm like he was blaming them for something by simply looking at them. It was another thing he liked about Sorgan. Omera and the rest of the villagers didn’t seem to mind that much. She gave him one more smile and left him to take the jar inside. His eyes followed her before Winta’s shout of glee diverted his attention, and he ducked back into the house.

He set the jar down on the table by the window and set his hands down on its surface, leaning forward to roll the thin curtain out of the way. People were milling around in his line of sight, carrying timber and baskets of seeding material, on their way to try and salvage what was left of their krill ponds. It reminded him of the armorer’s  _ riduur _ , the way she would run around with the other farmers and plant the  _ neral _ before they could get to the less sturdy crops.

He’d always liked her. She was sharp and hot-tempered, but sweet once you were in her good graces. She and the armorer had been a good match. The last time he saw her, she was dragging him half-conscious into a makeshift medical ward. He wasn’t awake when she left, or when the stormtroopers got her.

He came back to his body as Omera came into his field of view, and with mounting surprise and a bit of horror he realized his heart did a flip.

\----

The child stuck his head through a patch of long grass, his big eyes focused on a blue frog croaking on a ledge. He leapt forward with all the power in his short little legs and slapped a hand down on its back, stuffing it partially in his mouth and putting in a considerable effort to swallow it whole.

“Ewwww!” The watching village children, centered around Winta as per usual, groaned in exaggeration. The child let the frog drop from his mouth with a plop, and the creature jumped straight into the nearest water.

Din smiled under his helmet and fidgeted with his thumbs under his belt. Cara chuckled from her seat on the other side of the porch. Omera stepped out of the house and handed the bounty hunter a cup of spotchka.

“Thank you.” Cara said quietly, taking a sip. Omera turned to him.

“Can I set you something in the house?”

“Um, thank you. Maybe later.” He waved a hand from waist level, not bothering to unfasten his thumbs. She turned her gaze to the pack of laughing kids. Her face broke into a grin.

“He’s very happy here.” Her voice was sweet, affection betrayed in her tone. 

“He is.” He nodded in agreement, his eyes flicking between them and her behind his visor.

“Fits right in.” She commented and stepped off the porch, off into the rest of the village. Din followed her with his eyes and tried not to think too hard about it. How long had it been since he’d done so without bloody hands painting his guilt red?

“So, what happens if you take that thing off? They come after you and kill you?” Cara asked, turning her shoulders to face him. He met her gaze for a moment and turned away again.

“No. You just can’t ever put it back on again.” The idea alone made him feel… naked, and alone. The potential for his entire life to end in a moment, without the mercy of no longer being alive for it. Cara scoffed.

“That’s it? So you can slip off the helmet, and settle down with that beautiful young widow, and raise your kid sitting here, sipping spotchka?” She waved her cup around for emphasis. He turned and glared at her. He knew she didn’t understand the full depth of the concept, but all the same, it was a bit hurtful. Especially given the fact he’d considered it. She shrugged and took a sip, her gaze turning over the surrounding area. 

“You know, we raised some hell here a few weeks back. It’s too much action for a backwater little town like this. Word travels fast. We might wanna cycle the charts and move on.” He said slowly, forcing himself to state the reality of the situation. 

“Would not wanna be the one who’s gotta tell him.” Cara nodded to the kid, currenting waddling back and forth between outstretched hands holding krill. Din swallowed.

“I’m leaving him here. Traveling with me, that’s no life for a kid. I did my job, he’s safe. Better chance at a life.” If he was being honest with himself, which he rarely was, he’d allow the thought that the reassurance was for him to actually cross his mind. Instead, he mentally tackled it like a security guard catching a fan breaking onto a bolo pitch.

“It’s gonna break his little heart.” She rolled the spotchka cup around in her hand, preventing the drink from splashing over the sides with gentle rocks. 

“He’ll get over it. We all do.” She didn’t say anything in response. They watched the kids play for a few more minutes before he pushed off the wall and went looking for Omera. He found her between some of the krill ponds. 

“Excuse me.” He called her attention. “Can I have a word?” 

“Of course.” She brushed her hands off on the front of her dress and followed him out of the casual hearing range of the others. He turned around and tried not to get distracted by the way her smile made the tips of his fingers tingle a little.

“It’s very nice here.” He said. Her smile widened, and she nodded.

“Yes.”

“I think it’s clear he’s… he’s happy here.” She thought over his words for a second, and her smile dropped away the slightest bit. 

“What about you?”

“Me?” He was still not very used to her and the community’s inquiries after his wellbeing. She nodded again, softer this time.

“Are you happy here? We want you to stay. The community’s grateful. You can pack all this away in case there’s ever trouble. You and your boy could have a good life. He could be a child for a while. Wouldn’t that be nice?” The look in her eyes made his throat hurt and his eyes wet.

“It would.” Din hoped he didn’t sound as close to tears as he was. He blinked a few times, and watched as Omera’s hands lifted slowly, cupping the sides of his helmet with a shaky grip. It was as he saw the edge of his visor shift that a flash of blue crossed his mind, and the echo of a familiar tone said ‘ _ Din’ika _ ’. His hands wrapped around her wrists with the lightest grip he could manage and he pulled them away from his head.

“I don’t belong here, but he does.” Something sparked in him, and he steadied his voice. The look of disappointment on her face left an ache in his chest anyway.

“I understand.” She looked down and swallowed, and then met his eyes, her view finding his through the visor somehow. “I will look after him as one of my own.”

A gunshot sounded. He pulled her behind him, scanning the trees in quick flicks of his head. His pistol was out and trained on the treeline. Ignoring the screams of the children wasn’t an easy task.

“Go get the kids.” He ordered. She spun around in an instant and took off as he bolted toward the shot. He found Cara standing over the smoking body of a bounty hunter. The beep of a tracking fob bounced around the foliage. He rolled the body over with his boot and picked up the blinking device. 

“Who’s he tracking?” Cara asked, her voice oozing with tension.

“The kid.” He grunted out, turning toward the village. She shifted, facing him fully.

“They know he’s here.”

“Yes.” 

“Then they’ll keep coming.”

“Yes.” He tried to keep the frustration out of his voice, throwing the tracker onto the ground. His boot slammed down on the device, and he felt the plating pop under his sole with a crunch, the circuitry crackling as he destroyed it. 

He stalked back toward the village, leaving the body for the scavengers. Cara followed him, and when he began pulling his things from the house he had just started thinking of as his own, she wordlessly began helping. Caben was the first to come and investigate.

“What are you doing?” He asked as Din leaned a rifle case against a crate of ammo boxes. Stoke hovered a few feet away.

“The kid and I have to leave.” He placed a hand on the long plastoid container, letting it bear some of his weight. Caben was one of the people that had gotten used to the way his visor felt like he didn’t blink, so he didn’t start shifting around when he made eye contact.

“Why?” Stoke came over to stand at the other farmer’s elbow. “I thought you guys liked it here. It seemed like you were settling in well.”

“Is it because of that shot?” Caben asked before Din responded. He sighed and nodded.

“It was a bounty hunter, tracking the kid. I thought we were too out of the way for anyone to find, but they got to us. I don’t want to risk everyone here and the kid.”

The pair nodded, disappointment lowering their shoulders and folding their spines. It put a smile on his face, however sad his eyes were. It was nice to know he’d be missed at the least.

“Dune will keep you safe, and she has my code if she needs an extra hand.” They nodded and straightened a bit.

“Mind if we help out then?” Stoke offered, gesturing to the stack of supplies. He looked down at them and back to the two farmers.

“Not at all. Thanks.” 

The pair pushed the work along quicker, and when Stoke retrieved the cart for him, the other villagers took notice. They began loading, and he took the opportunity to track down the kid.

He was with Winta’s pack, and when Din approached, he turned and toddled over, lifting his arms a bit. Din tucked his hands under his tiny limbs and lifted him, gathering him up into the crook of his elbow. The rest of the kids followed them back to the cart.He set the child on the side of the vehicle and started stacking the last of the ammo cases. Cara’s heavy steps approached, the grass rustling softly beneath her boots. 

Are you sure you don’t want an escort?”

“I appreciate the offer, but we’re gonna bypass the town and head right to the  _ Razor Crest _ .” He explained to her and set his last case on the vehicle. She shifted her weight and threw her bag over her shoulder.

“Well then, until our paths cross.” Her arm lifted, hand open for his. He gripped it firmly and shook. 

“Until our paths cross.” She smiled and let go, walking away. Winta broke away from the other kids and ran up to the kid, wrapping her arms around him. He chirped, his ears drooping.

I’m gonna miss you so much.” She whimpered, tears dripping down her cheeks. Din watched her, his chest squeezing. Omera stepped into his field of vision, and he turned his body and attention to her. She looked as if she would like to say a thousand things, and nothing at all.

“Thank you.” Her lips curled around the words, and Din nodded firmly. She smiled slightly as Winta let go of the kid and came over. Omera tucked her child under a comforting arm and stepped back, allowing him to pick up his pulse rifle and circle the cart, sitting on its end. He nodded to the assembled villagers as the craft started moving. At least this goodbye was peaceful.

They got to the Razor Crest within an hour, and he spent the last of the daylight to load the crest. He picked up some quick supplies in the town, strapped the kid in, and got them out of atmo. 

“Alright kid. Let’s get out of here.” He muttered to the little one. With a few buttons and the flick of a lever, he picked a set of coordinates and threw them into hyperspace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a translations, in order of appearance:  
> ad'ika- little one, little child  
> buir(e)- parent(s)  
> ade- children  
> aliit'alor- clan leader  
> riduur- spouse  
> neral- a hearty grain considered unfit for comsumption, fed to livestock  
> Din'ika- little Din, Din's with the diminutive suffix 'ika attached to create a term of endearment
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Thanks for reading. I appreciate it! :D

**Author's Note:**

> Mando'a:  
> ik'aad: baby, child under 3  
> gebbar kar'ta: close to the heart*  
> gai bal manda: adoption ceremony, lit. name and soul  
> buir: parent  
> sen'tra('e): jetpack(s)**
> 
> *alternatively, the phrase kar'taylir, which means hold in the heart, can be used in the same sense. I chose to make the distinction between close to and within for a specific purpose ;^)  
> **don't be fooled, my grasp of pluralization in mando'a is shaky at best, so if tacking an 'e' at the end is incorrect, please tell me.
> 
> As always, my mando'a is from mandoa.org.


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